back to the paddock

The paddock was alive with its usual chaos—mechanics rushing between the garages, engineers huddled over laptops, and media personnel weaving through the maze of motorhomes and hospitality suites. The smell of hot asphalt and burnt rubber mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a scent so familiar it almost felt like home. Almost.

I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder, taking in the scene as I made my way through the throng of people. I was back in my element, but this time, everything felt... different.

Or maybe, it was just Lando.

I hadn't spoken to him much since Monaco. Not properly. A few texts, a couple of lingering glances across the grid, but that was it. That weekend had been a dangerous blur of sun-drenched moments and whispered promises that neither of them had dared to fulfill completely. And now,we were back where the game had started—except now, the stakes were much, much higher.

"Davenport! You're causing trouble again."

I barely had time to process the voice before Joris Trouche, Charles Leclerc best friend, was beside me, a teasing smirk on his face. He nodded toward my phone, where a notification from Twitter was lighting up the screen.

I sighed, unlocking my phone and scrolling through the countless notifications. It didn't take long to find what he was talking about. My latest article had just gone live—a piece on Ferrari's questionable strategy and pit stop blunders that had cost them dearly in recent races. And, as expected, it was already stirring up controversy.

"The Scuderia's strategy calls are starting to feel more like a roulette game than a well-thought-out plan. If they keep gambling like this, they might as well swap the pit crew for a team of croupiers."

The quote was being shared all over social media, and I groaned internally. I had expected backlash, of course. Ferrari's passionate fanbase was already up in arms, calling me biased, unprofessional, and a slew of other insults I was more than used to by now. But it wasn't just the fans—team PR members were also circling like vultures, ready to pick apart my words in post-session interviews.

"Bold," Trouche remarked, glancing at me with amusement.

"Honest," I corrected, sliding my phone back into my pocket. "Ferrari needs to get their act together. It's getting embarrassing."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You're lucky I like you, Davenport. Otherwise, I'd be very offended on behalf of my mates team."

I smirked. "You should be offended by their pit stops, not my words."

Joris laughed, but before he could reply, I felt it—the shift in the air, the weight of a gaze pressing against my skin. I didn't have to look to know who it belonged to.

Norris.

He was standing near the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath the brim of his cap. But his eyes—they held something different. Something that hadn't been there before Monaco. Or maybe, it had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged.

Joris followed my gaze and smirked knowingly. "You two should really sort that out," he mused before clapping my shoulder and walking off.

Sort what out? I had no idea.

Lando, however, seemed determined to find out. He pushed off the wall, walking toward me with that same easy confidence that drove my insane. As he got closer, I held her ground, lifting my chin defiantly.

"Davenport."

"Norris."

"You do realize you've pissed off half the paddock, right?" His voice was low, edged with amusement rather than reprimand.

I arched a brow. "Which half?"

"The red one."

I scoffed. "They'll get over it."

Lando studied me for a moment, his eyes flickering between mine. There was something about the way he was looking at me that made my pulse race—like he could see straight through the facade I had so carefully crafted.

"You don't pull punches, do you?"

I shrugged. "Wouldn't be doing my job if I did."

He took a step closer, and suddenly, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade into the background. "And when it comes to us?" he asked, voice quieter now, more intent. "Are you pulling punches there too?"

My breath caught. He was too close. Too much.

"Lando—"

"You haven't said a word about Monaco."

I swallowed hard. "Neither have you."

He smirked. "Because I'm waiting for you to admit you want me."

My heart pounded, a dangerous mix of frustration and attraction coursing through me. "You're insufferable."

"You love it."

And damn it, I did. But I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

Before I could reply, a voice interrupted them. "Emilia, we need a word."

It was a member of Ferrari's PR team, looking less than pleased.

Lando sighed, stepping back but not before murmuring, "This isn't over."

As I turned to follow the PR rep, I felt the heat of his gaze on my back, a silent promise lingering in the air between us.

No, this definitely wasn't over.

I sighed but followed them into the Ferrari hospitality area. "If this is about my article, let me stop you right there. I stand by every word."

The PR manager's jaw twitched. "You've made quite the stir. Your take on our strategy was—"

"Honest?" I crossed my arms. "Because if you're looking for an apology, you won't get one."

The PR manager exhaled sharply. "Calling our pit stops a 'masterclass in self-sabotage' wasn't exactly diplomatic."

"Neither was double-stacking the cars without telling your drivers," I shot back. "Charles didn't even know what was happening until he was sitting in the pit box, watching his race slip away. And Hamilton? He spent half the race on the radio asking why he was on hards in the middle of a soft-stint window. The world saw it. I just put it into words."

"You're making enemies."

"I'm making headlines," I corrected. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more races to cover."

I turned on her heel and left before they could get another word in. My pulse was racing, but I refused to let it show. I had built my career on sharp, unfiltered honesty. I wasn't about to stop now.